


the harold song

by togekissies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:37:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togekissies/pseuds/togekissies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to tell you not the story of our grand, departed empress, but of a runaway princess, a rebel queen, and a tyrant.”</p>
<p>Her eyes go very, very wide and in a hushed whisper she says, “Tell me.”</p>
<p>So you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the harold song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theblindseeress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindseeress/gifts).



You are so very old and so very tired.  
  
Parties and gatherings used to be your bread and butter. You lived for the occasions when families from all over flocked to the palace and were simply too polite to tell you to shut up when you got going with one of your stories. You loved breezing from group to group, catching up with old friends, and the tireless conversation that would extend into the wee hours of the morning.  
  
You were much younger then, and had much more to gain from meaningless chatter. You have long since passed your prime. The polite nodding you receive is no longer tinged with a slight fear and admiration, but now with dull disinterest and vague respect for the elderly. You find that you care very little.  
  
Your departure from the dining area goes unnoticed. You travel down the hall and into an unused sitting room that is slightly out of the way. It is so saturated with festive decorations that you make a face and shove some out of your way carelessly. You slowly put a few logs into the neglected fire and poke at it until it returns to its roaring glory, then settle down on a plush, overly luxurious armchair in royal pink.  
  
You are content with your life and its legacy. If you fell asleep now and never woke up, you don’t think you’d mind much.  
  
The door quietly slides open behind you, obviously being operated by someone who is taking care not to disturb you. It clicks shut and little feet pad across the thick rugs with poorly disguised excitement. A small head pokes around the arm of the armchair and bursts into a large smile upon the discovery of your continued consciousness.  
  
“Hello, Auntie ‘Ranea!” She quips in her slightly shrill voice. You’ve witnessed many an adult wince whenever she spoke up, but you find her shrillness easier to hear with your old ears.  
  
“Good evening, Terezi,” you say warmly. You pat your lap and she crawls up and snuggles against you. “Terribly boring out there, isn’t it?”  
  
The young Pyrope makes a very grim face. “Yeah,” she says, “It’s all a bunch of adults sucking up to each other. It’s so fake it makes me wanna puke!”  
  
You prod at her stomach and scold her in a teasing manner. “Young ladies shouldn’t speak so harshly!” She giggles so enthusiastically she shrieks, then she clasps her hands to her mouth in embarrassment.  
  
You gaze down at the child in your lap, so small for her age, and observe how she fidgets with the silver thread that hems her gown, knowledgeable enough to know its value but still uncomfortable enough to play with it. You look at her eyes, already so much more clouded from the last time you’ve seen her, and not for the first time you feel a surge of pity for the obstacles she must face in the future. You feel sorry for her for being the sole heir to the House of Pyrope, but even more so for the fools who will treat her like a helpless child because of her eventual blindness. Terezi was still a child, but she already understood the abstract concepts of cause and effect, of life and death, and you would trust her to understand exactly how she may manipulate events in favor of right and wrong long after you’re unable to guide her.  
  
It is a pity her mother doesn’t like you much. You enjoy spending time with Terezi.  
  
You stroke her hair idly. She presses her head comfortably to your chest. She then asks, “Tell me a story?”  
  
You react with mock surprise. “You want a story? But mine are so boring, it might put you to sleep.”  
  
She giggles. “No, no, I love your stories! I want to hear one, but not one I’ve heard before.”  
  
“Well, alright,” you agree, “Have I ever told you the story of the empress?”  
  
“Feferi?” She asks, giving you a look.  
  
You shake your head. “No, Feferi isn’t the empress yet. I’m talking about her grandmother.”  
  
Terezi’s mouth makes a perfect little ‘o’. “I knew that,” she says, quickly. “I was just testing you. And I know the story of the empress!”  
  
“Not quite. I’m going to tell you not the story of our grand, departed empress, but of a runaway princess, a rebel queen, and a tyrant.”  
  
Her eyes go very, very wide and in a hushed whisper she says, “Tell me.”  
  
So you do.

* * *

 

You don’t remember the first time you met Meenah. For as long as you can remember you’ve been her dutiful shadow, tasked with pulling her out of trees and making her focus on her needlework. You remember her telling you she hated you and running off to cry in a corner, only to emerge at the smell of a freshly baked cake with “I’m sorry” written on it in pink frosting. You remember becoming her only friend in the world and consoling her hidden away in her rooms before big events she had to make an appearance at. You remember more than once disguising yourself as a man so she wouldn’t dance with anyone she would get irritated with and stab with cutlery. You remember the days when she was free to do as she wished, when she made your braid her hair before disappearing along the beach on horseback.  
  
Your official title is lady-in-waiting for the princess-in-waiting, although originally you were just a servant girl your parents sold to pay off debts. Because of your similar age you were placed with the rambunctious princess and because of your eventual closeness you gained your own titles and the slightest bit of respect.  
  
Meenah never cared for her position, to the point of actively resenting it. She enjoys luxury and loves to decorate herself in rich gold and beautiful jewels, but she does not want to rule and will throw fits when forced to study politics or history. The way she sends off suitors is rude, bordering on obscene, and you often lecture on how important her future marriage to the point where she doesn’t even try to hide her eye rolls and annoyed huffing.  
  
She only ever lets you dote on her. In fact, you often think she does things just to have you fuss over her. Her royal blood has not only isolated her from her interests but from other kids your age, and you often mourn for the vivacious girl inside her that never has a chance to be free. You hate that all she has is you, but at the same time are thankful that she has a friend at all.  
  
She often speaks of anarchy and you’ve long since given up trying to keep her from her radical ideas, as long as she preaches them behind closed doors. She goads you into dropping your prim and proper demeanour into something a bit more frustrated and bit more her and laughs about it. She freely bosses around servants when she is in a bad mood and insults ambassadors when she’s bored.  
  
And you love her.  
  
You love her even when she breaks your heart on a daily basis. You love her when she smiles, when she’s angry, when she curls up on your bed and begs you to take her away. You love her the most when she takes you with her to where she runs on her days off from being a princess and invites you into her private world, free from obligation.  
  
You hate her too. You hate how little she takes seriously, how she treats the world like it owes her something she has yet to earn. And mostly, you hate her when she lets herself into your room one night and tells you she is leaving for good.  
  
So you say without glancing up from your book, “No you’re not.”  
  
She replies without any grandiose gesture, “Yeah. I am.”  
  
You look at her and she stares right back at you, her face so deadly serious your heart drops and your blood runs cold. “You’re not leaving, Meenah,” you say. “You can’t.”  
  
“Nah, see,” She sits on the edge of the chair next to you and looks at the ground, her shoulders slumped in uncharacteristic defensiveness. “I’ve always been able to up and leave whenever I want. Just haven’t yet. I’m sick of all these blowholes telling me what I can and can’t do and trynna turn me into some pretty little doll and that just ain’t me.” She scratches the side of her nose. “So I’m running away and never coming back.”   
  
You want to treat this like every other time she’s claimed to want to run away, but you can’t ignore the plain, ugly brown dress she has on over the pants she wears out riding, as well at the overstuffed bags she’s dropped by her feet and the way she’s taken off every bit of jewelry she had on that morning. You remember every time in the past week she’d been especially secretive, her guilty looks and random disappearances. All you can think is, This is it. You’d seen it coming and you wish you hadn’t ignored it.  
  
“Meenah...” You close your book.  
  
“Braid my hair,” she says, “Like you always do.”  
  
Your limbs are stiff and wooden when you stand and move your chair to right behind hers. She flips her hair, her beautiful, thick, waist-length hair, over the back of her chair and you put your shaking hands on it.  
  
You swallow and surprise yourself by saying, “You would be less recognizable if you cut it, and it would be easier to maintain.”  
  
She shakes her head, hair cascading around her shoulders. “Nah, I like it when you do it.”  
  
You run your fingers through her hair, separate it into three sections, and start to braid it. You go slowly while biting back tears, and once you’re halfway through you drop the braids and untangle them. You start again, the world fading away to nothing but the softness of Meenah’s hair. You don’t know how long you take, only that when you’re done the world outside is dark and you were so focused on your task that Meenah had to stretch over to your desk to grab the candle sitting on it.  
  
You take a moment to look over your handiwork. Normally you would do her hair in one long, thick braid straight down her back, but you felt that was too heavy and too familiar. Instead you’ve fixed her hair into two thinner braids, and before you declare your job finished you delicately twist them and pin them to the crown of her head.  
  
You pretend the main reason you do this isn’t to spend a few more seconds with her.  
  
She takes your hand and shoves one of her bags into it. Numb, you follow her through the halls in silence, stopping when she thinks she hears something and ducking into empty rooms when a servant or a guard walks by. She leads you to the stable where her horse, already tacked up, is waiting, and leads the horse free.  
  
She turns to you, a hand on her horse’s neck, and says, “I’ll catch ya later, Serket.”  
  
You want to cry. Instead you grab her by the shoulders and kiss her.  
  
You expect her to react badly, to push you away and leave you forever, but she tucks her arms around you and kisses you with equal intensity. You feel nothing but her and her lips and her hands and when she breaks it off the rush of cold air shocks you.  
  
“Come with me,” She says.  
  
“I can’t. I just--I can’t.”  
  
She frowns at you. “I don’t want them to blame you.”  
  
You should go with her. Your heart feels as if if you don’t, it would burst from your chest and follow her wherever she goes, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. You want to go with her so, so badly. There is nothing stopping you. You have no family, and you have sworn you’d serve her until your death.  
  
It would be a lie to say you weren’t scared. You say, “Write a note.”  
  
Neither of you have paper, so you have to make another trip back to your room. She quickly scribbles a note and the two of you take it back to her room, where she seals it with wax and leaves it on her undisturbed bed.  
  
When you go back to the stable she doesn’t look at you until she mounts her horse, and even then she only waves once and then she’s gone.  
  
You walk back to your room in unfeeling silence and sit on your bed for hours that pass in a haze. You cry yourself into a restless sleep.

* * *

  
  
You neatly tie off the end of the small braid you’ve worked into Terezi’s hair as you spoke, partially amazed that your old fingers still remember the movements needed to make a perfect bow. You straighten them so they don’t poke out at odd angles. Her hair is too short to make braids of significant length.  
  
“Some did try to blame me for her disappearance,” You continue, “But with the note she left and how upset I was, they rationalized that I would have gone with her if I knew and I was let off the hook. With no princess, however, I had no longer any power to hold my position, so I was scorned and pushed into the most menial jobs they could give me. It was awful work, but it kept me busy.”  
  
Terezi looks at you, her lips pursed like she has something to say. When she asks her question, it’s one you are surprised she latched on to at all; “What did you mean when you said you loved her?”  
  
You pull your hands back and stare into the fire. “I meant I love her,” you say, hoping you can convey the depth of your feelings to someone so young, “More than bees love the first flowers of spring. I love her more than a horse loves to run, more than a child loves to play, and more than a holy man loves God.”  
  
Her eyes widen slightly at your casual blasphemy. She nods sagely. “I think I know what you mean,” she says, looking uncharacteristically shy. “I love Vriska a lot sometimes too. But sometimes--sometimes she makes it hard, and all I want to do is hit her until she stops being such a jerk.”  
  
You smile warmly, hoping to reassure that you aren’t angry at her for admitting something so personal between herself and your granddaughter. “I believe you. Loving Vriska Serket must be just as difficult as loving Meenah Peixes.”  
  
Terezi looks pensive, and a little sad. She rips out a loose thread from her holiday gown. “If she ran away, how did she become Queen?”  
  
You press your lips into a thin line. “It’s simple. The king at the time, her father, died. They blamed her mother and she was to be executed. Everyone was afraid the kingdom would descend into anarchy without an heir to the throne, so drastic measures had to be taken.”  
  
“So Meenah came back when she heard about her parents?”  
  
“Not quite.” You say, trying to determine what the feeling in the pit of your stomach was at the sound of someone other than yourself saying her name. “She required a little convincing.”  
  


* * *

  
  
You don’t know where Meenah went that night, nor do you know if she has moved in the years that have since passed, but you have determination and nothing else to lose. In all honesty you will admit that the search for her was disappointingly short. It took you only about a month of traveling to the far sea and some nights of questioning about a brash young woman who had probably broken a nose or two when angry. In the last town you visit you are barely done with the word ‘haughty’ and halfway through the word ‘greedy’ when the man you are drunkenly speaking with groans and says, “Y’mean that awful girl that comes in ‘ere and demands our best ale an’ then spits it righ’ back in the face of anyone who looks at ‘er funny?”  
  
At that you thank the man, buy him his next round, and then cut yourself off for the night. You sleep your drink off, obtain directions to her cabin from the friendly innkeeper, and tell yourself that this is a reunion that has been delayed for way too long. There is little doubt in your mind that they are speaking of the very same Meenah you’re questing for, judging by the enthusiastic stories you received the night before. It seems like everyone in this town, including the children, are eager to gossip about her, and you have the distinct impression it’s from fondness.  
  
Your resolve falters when you see her house. It’s a short hike away from the rest of the village, partly hidden by a small grove of trees and resting too close to a cliff for comfort. You smell the sweet saltiness of the sea, feel the cool breeze tug at your hair, and you understand why she would be drawn to this place.  
  
She’s painted her cabin with an ugly mural in pink and gold, and you wonder where she’s managed to find the money. You think perhaps she tucked some gold away in her skirts when she ran away, and you’re reasonably convinced that she can probably earn a comfortable amount of money by demanding people to pay her so she _wouldn’t_ kill them.   
  
You think about turning back and letting her have her peace. Instead you tear off your cloak, fix up your modest blue dress, and pound on the door with thinly veiled anger.   
  
“Clam yer fuckin’ seahorses, I’ll get there when I get there.”  
  
You wait patiently for a full eighty seconds and when Meenah does not make an appearance at the door you knock again.   
  
There is a loud shuffling noise, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor, and she calls, “God! Fine!” You hear her stomp across the floor, probably shoving something out of her way with her feet, and then she shoves the door open. “What the fuck do you--oh.” Meenah’s mouth hangs partly open and she seems to have lost her voice.  
  
You fill the silence in for her. “Seahorses. Really.”  
  
She laughs nervously. “Uh, well...” She trails off, and this line of conversation obviously isn’t going anywhere.  
  
You take out the official scrolls hidden in your sleeve and tear it open at the wax seal.You make a show of unrolling it, put on your flattest voice, and say loudly, “The King is dead. The Queen is soon to follow. In our time of need, we turn to you to rule. We invite you back to your home and to your birthright and implore you take up the crown--Queen Meenah.”  
  
She stares at you. You aren’t surprised. You reroll the scroll and give her a few more moments, prepared to launch into an hour long lecture as to why she should come back with you.  
  
“Okay,” she croaks.  
  
You blink. “Okay?” You echo.  
  
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll go back. Or whatever.” She rubs her eye and pulls her loose shirt higher up over her shoulder and for the first time you notice just how much older she looks. You note how her hair is still tied up in two braids, messy and uneven, and everything inside of you that was angry at her for leaving you deflates and pitters out with a sigh.   
  
You don’t know why she agrees so easily. Maybe she’s bored with trying to pass as poor and she misses living surrounded by excess and whatever her heart could desire. Maybe the idea of having power over anyone, including herself, is appealing. There’s a tiny part of you that thinks that maybe, just maybe, she had a hand in the king’s murder, but you rationalize that away by thinking of how she would have just stormed into the castle and demanded the throne if that was true.  
  
You never find out why she goes with you. You’re not even sure she knows.  
  
Once you’re safely back at the castle with the Queen-to-be in tow everything is a flurry of preparation. Meenah herself is one important thing that needs to be worked on, her hair badly in need of detangling and a trim, her skin dirty and splotchy from neglect, and her manner even more exaggeratedly rough than it used to be. You want to distance yourself from her and assist with preparing the castle and planning her coronation, but you find yourself drawn to her as if you orbit her like the moon, always calm and subtle in your influence as opposed to the wild and confused ferocity of the earth.  
  
The hushed concern of the past few months has turned into pulsating energy overnight as everyone--from the castle, to the surrounding towns--finds themselves full of excitement to see the infamous runaway princess. She has been gone for years! they cry. She is free from the curse that fell upon the queen! We may rejoice.  
  
They cannot see the hellion you’ve sent to rule them. You, on the other hand, are intimately acquainted with her every quirk, as you have taken up your old role. She has developed a greater taste for strong alcohol and awful sea shanties and insists on making her coronation ocean themed. She even demands a new crown made from pearls, forcing you to carefully explain to her the historical significance of the crown, and how it is a symbol of great power.  
  
On the surface she is perfect. She is calm, thoughtful, and decisive. She fools the nobles intended to be her advisors into thinking she honestly cares about anything they have to say, then proceeds to ignore every bit of wisdom they may have given her. All before she is even officially given the crown, and you must admit you are impressed.  
  
The day her mother is executed, Meenah is crowned. It not only goes just as well as you expect, it goes better. She actually takes your advice and sticks to a shorter speech and even drops her awful syntax for it. She is graceful and attentive and everything you’ve always hoped she would be, so of course you know there’s a catch.  
  
It starts slow. She is the pinnacle of a well-composed, obedient queen and allows her advisors to do most of the decision making. Sometimes she would snap at one, but would regain her composure quickly. Once or twice you would catch her slipping a bribe to an errand boy or a child of someone important, and they might disappear or otherwise interfere with business.  
  
She begins to act out. She’ll dismiss visitors without seeing them, knock trays of food over if the sight isn’t appetizing to her, and the whispered insults about visiting ambassadors become loud shouts. She tears dresses if she feels it doesn’t give her enough mobility, spits in a man’s face and tells him his facial hair insults her, and sets the hunting hounds loose in the banquet hall during an important dinner for amusement.  
  
The worst part is that you can’t even properly chastise her because each time the two of you are behind closed doors she knows exactly how to make your heart melt. She kisses your eyes, your lips, your neck, your chest, and all the way down and up again. She runs her fingers down your arm until you fall asleep comfortably tucked between her legs with her breath warm on your cheek. She makes you laugh and you talk like you used to and you feel like a kid again. When she tells you that she feels like you are the only person she can trust in the world, you realize just how badly you didn’t want her to hate you for dragging her back to what she tried so hard to avoid.  
  
So you instead hone a different set of skills where you make appearances at important events and soothe the wounds Meenah leaves in her wake. You are all pretty smiles and even prettier words and you find you have an immense talent for convincing others to have faith in their queen. All it takes is a little nudge, a small word about how hard Meenah’s childhood was and how she fled to leave the evil influence of her parents, and people are more than willing to forgive her. Some even dare to give her a word of sympathy, much to her horror.  
  
There are rumors, of course, but there is no monarchy without whispers of royal madness. Those who think Meenah is too imbalanced to be on the throne are easily convinced that you are the one who really runs the show, and they start to go to you with their problems and inklings of revolution, which you loyally repeat to Meenah and she has crushed before it can begin.  
  
She’s just as good a ruler as you knew she would be, and just as terrible. And you, for better or for worse, are right beside her.  
  


* * *

  
  
Terezi pours you a cup of tea from the pot you called for halfway through your story. She focuses on the cup and manages not to splash any. Proud of herself, she dumps in too much sugar and not enough cream, and holds it out to you. You accept it gracefully and take a sip, enjoying it greatly despite the sweetness hurting your teeth. She separates the gingerbread cookies onto two plates and gives one to you. You happily share a moment of silence while you refuel.  
  
You set your cup down on the saucer, spare a glance to the fire, and ask, “Would you be a dear and put another log on?”  
  
Eager to please, Terezi nods and scrambles over to the fireplace. She places the log on the fire much more carefully than Vriska does, waits until it catches fire, and then plants herself on the floor next to you. She crafts a noose out of a string of licorice for her next gingerbread man, and devours it greedily. You’ve certainly raised a strange generation of children.  
  
“So,” she says, “When do we get to the good part?”  
  
You fake a heavy sigh, the upward tilt of your lips betraying your good humor. “Goodness, we’re an eager little devil, aren’t we? Fine then, I will tell you why Meenah became a tyrant out of boredom.”  
  
Terezi’s look is just so impressed you can’t help but laugh.  
  
“Don’t worry, dear, that’s just how it started.” You pat her shoulder. “She eventually found a much greater motivator, and--well, I’ll tell you that when we get there.”  
  
She tucks her knees up to her chest, bites the head off of another cookie, and waits, eagerness betrayed in her every twitch.  
  


* * *

  
  
On the one year’s anniversary of Meenah’s coronation she announces she wants to go to war.  
  
Her board of advisors, already conditioned to fear her, simply stare at her. Some look at you for answers, to which you offer a black faced reply. You’ve had plenty of practice with not letting your face betray your thoughts. Internally you are a storm of anger at her for not telling you, as well as understanding that if she had you would have been able to talk her out of it.  
  
There is one brave soul who pipes up, half hidden by the others; “But... why?”  
  
For her part, Meenah looks as if he just asked her the stupidest question ever. “Because,” she says, drawing her voice out as if to make sure he understands, “we ain’t got no respect. The shrimps around us think we’re weak lil’ fools. We gotta prove ‘em wrong.”  
  
You have to admit, she has a point. The sudden upheaval and transfer of power to a princess no one had seen in years probably has some of your border partners wary, and the way she treats the ambassadors they send over makes them even more so. You thought you had it under control, however, and that you wouldn’t be attacked or invaded... for a few more weeks, at least.   
  
There is a small murmur of disagreement among the crowd that takes only about a minute to become loud enough for Meenah to slam her hands down on the heavy wooden table and bellow, “ _Silence!_ ”  
  
Everyone freezes, too afraid to move lest they make a noise that sets her off.  
  
Meenah shoves her chair back with her butt and knees it out of her way. She paces down the long end of the table. “We,” she starts, affecting her mockingly royal voice, “are poor as shit. All this spending and spending and what do we got to offset it? Taxes? Pssh, the poor don’t got much to share with us, that’s why they’re poor.” She makes a flippant gesture and looks so very proud of herself for coming to that awfully difficult conclusion by herself. “An army’s a great way to get those suckerfish working, and we don’t have to take anyone’s shit no more if we rule them.” She stops walking at the other end of the table, puts her hands on her hips and looks positively cockey. “It’s brilliant, if I say so myshellf.”  
  
Every face in the room is pale. You thankfully have no reservations with calling Meenah out on her shit, so stoney faced and even toned, you say, “So you want us to go to war because you want to do something important.”  
  
Instead of getting offended, she points at you and winks. “The blue chick’s got it!”  
  
You let out an irritated sigh. “Meenah, you can’t just declare war because you’re bored. There’s a lot of preparations to take place, generals to appoint, soldiers to train, weapons to acquire--and you need to do so while convincing the people that this is a war they should support, as well. You’re not thinking this through.”  
  
“Gill, you worry too much. I got this all under control.” She gestures widely, spreading her arms out like wings.  
  
“I don’t think you do!” You bristle, put your hands on your hips, and tap your foot. The men still seated at the table between you two manage to look even more uncomfortable. “You’re not getting just how huge this is, and the implication that--”  
  
“Aranea.” She cuts you off with a serious look. “I’ve got this.”  
  
You recognize that stare from when she left you, all those years ago, and immediately drop it.  
  
Meenah grins broadly, showing off all her teeth, and spins on her heel, pink skirts floating around her. She bursts through the double doors dramatically, and you can hear her giggling distantly as she walks away.  
  
There is a short awkward silence, then one man manages to find his voice. “Er. Do you think that... we should... stop her?”  
  
You sharply turn to him and give him your coolest look. “We are not deposing her,” you say, voice stern, “and I believe in her. That should be enough for you, sir.”  
  
You don’t stick around for his reaction. You exit out of the very doors Meenah just passed though, with much less flamboyance. You have a war to plan.   
  
It takes months to raise an even halfway passable army. Meenah surprises you with her patience, and even more so with her enthusiasm. One day she walks down to the training grounds and announces that she will lead them into battle. You stand behind her and roll your eyes.   
  
On your way back to the castle you are intercepted by a messenger, who tells you the king of the neighboring kingdom is delighted to have you as his guests. You smile sweetly, tell him you will be there within the week, and leave to tell Meenah the news.   
  
You go along with her, of course. She goes nowhere without you. The greeting you receive is nothing short of grand, with a parade and a party. You are even announced as Dame Aranea Serket, Grand Advisor to the Queen, and it is a stark reminder of how you are no longer just a little servant girl. Meenah is seated directly to the right of the king, and she is uncharacteristically pleasant. You hear her laugh a little too loudly at times; you’ve watched her drink and know she has not had enough to be even remotely drunk, so you wonder why she is acting this way over the throbbing in your ears. Your attention is diverted elsewhere as you make nice with the nobility and knights and by the time Meenah guides a highly inebriated king back to his chambers, you are surrounded by too many who are too interested in your boring stories to follow.  
  
You stay late. You stay so late that you are the last conscious, sober guest in the banquet hall. You smile sweetly at the servants and even give them a hand with cleaning up, to their shock. Over stacks of dirty plates you ask one, “Could you direct me to the stables, please? I would like to check on my horse, she is so old and I’m afraid the journey might have been hard on her.”  
  
Flustered at your kindness, she gives you half-clear directions, but you find your way there well enough. One of your soldiers, disguised as a footman from your journey, is there to meet you. He shows you into a nearby room where you change from your party gown into your riding one. He points you to your horse and leaves you be. You find Meenah brushing her mane, and when she sees you, she smiles.  
  
You’re struck by sudden realization and you whisper, “Did you kill him?”  
  
To her credit, she looks incredibly guilty. “I had to. I mean--he was gettin’ all handsy and, well, no, I woulda done it anyway but.”  
  
You swallow the lump in your throat and take her hands in yours. “That’s... It’s not proper warfare. There are rules. I mean--I wish you would have told me.”  
  
“Yeah well, I’m not a proper gal, Serket.” She leans slightly toward you. “S’chool, he woulda had to die anyway.”  
  
You nod in agreement and she helps you mount your horse when you find that your legs no longer want to work the way they used to. Together you ride under the cover of darkness to her army, laying in wait in a largely wooded area. Meenah grabs a torch held up to her by and eager page and holds it above her head. She shouts a battle cry, “Are you ready to wreck shit!”  
  
The soldiers shout back at her and she passes the torch over to the general, and he orders them to charge the castle.  
  
It’s yours by morning.  
  
It turns out that Meenah did not actually kill the king, she merely poisoned him. She must have intended for him to either die or be weakened enough to be an easy capture once they overpowered the castle’s defences but he managed to get himself into a carriage and flee. You’ve sent a small party after him and you are confident that they’ll bring him back to you soon enough. The intent for the day to end with his death is still clear, however, although the deaths of the people who populate the castle are still in question.  
  
You enter the kitchens, where the staff are lined up with their heads down. Some of your soldiers are jeering at them, and you take a second to memorize their faces before sending them off. Some of the servants peek at you from beneath their lashes. You try to smile reassuringly. “Each and every one of you knows exactly how things are run around here, correct?”  
  
They don’t reply. Some shift their weight from foot to foot. You stand, back perfectly erect, and wait. Your eyes find the young woman whom you helped the night before. She refuses to meet your gaze, but nods.  
  
“Good,” You say, looking at each of them in turn. “There is a position for each of you if you cooperate. We need to seamlessly add your kingdom to ours and the help of those who continue to live within it would make the process much easier. You will have your own titles, land, and power if you choose to follow our Queen Meenah.” No one moves or says anything. “I’ll leave you to think this through. Just know that I can’t guarantee your safety if you decide to not help us.”  
  
You turn on your heel and leave the kitchens to deliver the same speech to any other servants that have been rounded up. At the end of the hour nearly all of them agree to help. You also get news that the king was captured, and you give orders to send him back home for his execution.  
  
You are tired. You didn’t sleep a wink the night before. You make to escape to a small room hidden out of the way so you can get a little alone time, but the choice as to which room is made for you when arms burst from behind a door and pull you inside. Your shock is only momentary because your would-be captor starts laughing, and you recognize the voice immediately.   
  
You scold her, because that’s all you ever do. “Meenah!” You jut out your bottom lip. “Don’t do that to me.”  
  
“I sure got you good,” she says, laughter still ringing in her voice. She kisses you, brief and excited, and then grabs you in the tightest hug you’ve ever had the misfortune of receiving. “It worked! Your dumb suck up plan worked. I can’t believe you actually know what you’re talking about sometimes, Serks.”  
  
“Of course it worked.” You attempt to pry her arms off of you, give up and rest your chin on the top of her head. “Rushing to attack them would have been silly.”  
  
“Yeah, and thanks to you they let their guard down. Watta bunch of chumps.” She is absolutely over the moon, and even though you were involved in the death of dozens of people, no matter how indirectly, you still find your spirits lifting along with hers. You should just be happy she listened to your suggestion to extend a peace offering before taking over. The underhandedness still makes you uncomfortable, but you were correct in it lowering the casualties and making the war much shorter.  
  
She kisses you again, full and eager, and growls against your lips, “Let’s do it again.”  
  
She spins you around and around until you start to feel dizzy and push her back onto a wall. She misinterprets your intentions and wraps her arms around your neck, smirking. You tell her, “You are the most infuriating person I know,” and she laughs like you just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard.  
  
And so becomes your routine. Again and again you meet with kings and queens, schmooze, wine and dine, and in the cover of darkness your armies attack and conquer. Meenah meets with the enemy’s troops and frightens and inspires them to pledge loyalty to her, under the threat of death. You meet with the silent observers and promise them riches beyond their wildest dreams if they swear to answer to you, and you alone. Then you and Meenah meet alone somewhere, and sometimes you fuck, sometimes you make love, and sometimes you hold each other in silence. It happens once, twice, dozens of times, and then you lose count.  
  
It shocks you sometimes how quickly it becomes your normal. When you were a child your biggest wish was for Meenah to complete her studies; you never imagined you would be not only at her side while she took over other kingdoms, but would be an active participant. You are also surprised at how easy it is. Some countries, generally the smaller ones, fall with little fanfare and eagerly become a part of your growing empire. Other takes a little longer, usually the ones that have managed to catch on to your modus operandi. You haven’t failed yet, however. Enemy armies fold easily into yours and your kingdom’s royal colors fly true. And it--you are a little afraid to admit--is exhilarating.  
  
Your lands have expanded to take up most of the continent by the time Meenah calls an important meeting. She sits, draped in jewels and smirking, on an elaborate throne she had commissioned only weeks earlier. She looks both breathtaking and terrifying. You take your seat at her side, in your much more modest chair, and sit straight and strong.  
  
She gazes over her board of advisors, a mishmash of people of noble and poor birth, men and women, those from your home country and those from the countries you have taken over, and they look back at her expectantly. She takes a breath and announces in her well-practiced royal voice, “I think it’s high tide that I’m declared the empress of this shit.”  
  
It takes only a few seconds for someone to stand up and say, “I concur.” Agreement echoes through the chamber, and Meenah smiles.  
  
“Movement passes?” She gestures and a servant passes around a document for everyone to sign. As soon as they do, she is given it for review. She nods, and says, “great! Thanks for the memories, assholes. I won’t be needing you anymore.”  
  
No one moves.  
  
“Didn’t you hear me? Get the fuck out.” She stands, long hair flying around her. Her former advisors scramble out the door.  
  
“Meenah!” You say, standing as well. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that?”  
  
“And I thought we agreed that yer more than annoying enough to make up for the loss of a buncha losers.”   
  
You ignore her insult. “You need to keep up appearances, at least.”  
  
She hooks her arm around your waist, completely any previous effort to keep your affair behind closed doors. “Nah. I got a plan.”  
  
And you, like a fool in love, go along with it.  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s very late, a maid reminds you from the door. You wave her off.  
  
She’s right. Terezi looks like she might fall asleep at any moment, though she has not complained a bit. Even so, she squints at you and gives you a look of utmost betrayal.  
  
“I don’t get it,” she admits.  
  
“What don’t you get?”  
  
“Everything!” She throws a hand out and nearly knocks over her empty teacup. “I don’t get why no one told me anything like this earlier, and I don’t get why she went and did all those bad things, and I even don’t get why they aren’t as bad as I thought they’d be.”  
  
You take her tiny hands in your wrinkled ones. “It’s really important that you understand this, Terezi,” you say. She looks attentive. “She did this all for you.”  
  
You don’t think you’ve ever seen a child give you a most sarcastic look. “...didn’t she die when I was just a baby?”  
  
“Yes. She did. But she still did it for you. She did it for all of you, you and your friends and everyone else your age.” You look over your shoulder at the map hanging on the wall, and she follows your gaze. “Before she expanded our borders, this country was a group of tiny kingdoms that were constantly at war with each other. There was too much death, too much disease. She figured that a central power would help eliminate some of that, and she didn’t want it to happen gradually only to have her hard work fall apart after her death. She made herself the villain so no one else had to be.”  
  
Terezi mulls this over for a long moment, comparing it to her own sense of right and wrong. “So... you’re saying... She did all those bad things so we would have a better life?” She looks so confused by this it breaks your heart.  
  
“She was never good at doing generous things for others. She always had to make it look like an accident.” You pull yourself up on your aching legs and collect the remains of your snack on the tray. “When Feferi was born, I told her I thought she would be the one to finally realize her dream.”  
  
“What was her dream?” she asks, in a small voice.  
  
“Her dream,” you say, “was that no one had to be forced into a position they didn’t want, like she was.”  
  
“Freedom.”  
  
“Yes. Freedom.”  
  
You hold your hand out to her and she grabs it.  
  
“I still don’t get why I didn’t learn this before.”  
  
“Because no one understands. I barely did.” You chuckle. You lead her from the room, and a servant takes the tray from your hands as soon as you pass the door. “I’m sure you will soon get a lesson on all of her atrocities. And I don’t want you to think that they aren’t horrible, because they are. But just know--sometimes things aren’t what they seem to be.”  
  
The two of you walk to her room in silence, giving her a moment to mull it over. You open her door and hold it for her. You kneel down to give her one last piece of advice. “Terezi. I want to ask a serious favor from you.”  
  
Through her tiredness she looks straight at you and nods. “Okay.”  
  
“Never leave your friends.” You squeeze her hands. “I told you because I know how intelligent you are, and I know you can be a neutral party. Your friends need that. Feferi, Vriska--even the little servant boy I see you playing with sometimes.” Her cheeks go pink, but she does not break eye contact. “You need to stay by them and guide them. I trust you to do this and I trust you to keep them alive.”   
  
She whispers, “I will, Aunt Aranea.” She wraps her tiny arms around your neck and holds on tight. You hug her back, just as tightly.  
  
“Sleep well, little one.” You kiss her forehead, she kisses your cheek, and you exit the room.  
  
Perhaps you could stand to live a few more years, if only to watch the children grow a little older.


End file.
